


Two Idiots and One (1) Sort of Responsible Person go on Trip

by Scibbler



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, OC centric, Tags will be updated as the story progresses, Updates Sporadically, rp between myself and two other ppl, there will be cursing probably, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 22:01:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scibbler/pseuds/Scibbler
Summary: This is an RP done for fun! It coincides with the shenanigans onboard the Lost Light, although our characters aren't too entangled with the main plot as of now. It starts from the beginning, like right after the part where Rodimus says "fuck it lets go to space, cybertron is awful" and a buncha other ppl are like "shit ur right", including our characters!Aaaaaand we don't know when it'll end, if it will end, how much it will diverge from the plot, or anything else, really.No promises can be made but like I swear it's a decent story so far.





	1. Crossgear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossgear is very tired and wants to leave.

Cybertron had changed. A  _ lot _ . And sure, Crossgear had expected change. The planet was dead for eons, so of course it would be different. Not operating at full capacity, cities still in ruins, all of this had been anticipated when he left Synkohl for his homeworld. What he hadn’t suspected was to be stuck in  _ prehistoric fragging times _ . He soared over the primeval landscape, thinking about what that scrappy little upstart--Rodimus?--Rodimus, yes, what he had said in that stupid speech of his. Not necessarily the inspiring bullshit meant to rally people, no, the  _ leaving the planet _ part was what caught his attention. They were going to take a ship and just...go. That was a plan he could get behind. He hadn’t even stayed to find out where they were going or why. He had sped back to the hovel constructed from scraps of metal on the outskirts of Iacon to recharge, knowing that the quicker he went into stasis, the quicker he’d be on that ship headed to wherever the fuck. The only thing that mattered was that he’d be off this sorry excuse for a cybertron.

 

Morning came, the light of Cybertron’s sun slowly bringing Cross out of stasis. He adjusted his optic settings so the daylight was no longer blinding and checked his HUD. The bright, blinking chronometer in the corner said he had approximately five kliks till takeoff. Scrap. _Scrap._ He was so royally screwed. He transformed and took off, destroying the stupid little shack he built in the process. _Goodbye, trash heap! May Primus smite me where I stand if I ever have to see that stupid patch of land again_. He thought, burning through his energon reserves faster than he would’ve had he not been trying to get to the launch on time. He was surprised to see the size of the line he’d be waiting on to get in. He had expected to be one of the only ones there, and instead found the longest line in the history of lines ever. So he waited.

 

And waited.

 

And  _ waited _ .

 

All the while, telling himself that it was worth it to get off this stupid ball of metal that looked nothing like the homeworld he had left behind. Finally, it was his turn. He got up to the security checkpoint and looked down at the short-- _ probably regular sized _ , his brain corrected--autobot standing there, who met his gaze with incredulous eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen  _ you _ before.” he stated bluntly, pulling a blank space open in his datapad to log Crossgear’s information.

 

“You wouldn’t. I’m a neutral.” Technically speaking, he wasn’t lying.

 

“Ah, I see. You’re a NAIL.” the red ‘bot replied, putting his ‘faction’ on file.

 

“Yeah, sure, whatever. I’m that.”  _ Hurry it up, Red _ . 

 

“Designation?” the autobot asked.

 

“Uh...Cross. Crossgear.”

 

He tapped the keyboard with his stylus, punching in his namesake. “Crossgear...Crossgear, okay. You’re...good to go. For now.” he said, clearly trying to discern what the suspiciously lumpy white patch on Cross’ arm was.

 

He bolted before stout, red, and paranoid could glean anything from it. Hopefully he just thought it was a patch of poor paintjob in need of a little buffing. Didn’t matter. He was on the ship.  _ He was on the fragging ship! _ With a bunch of autobots, but still. They were going somewhere, and maybe they’d make their way to Synkohl somehow. He leaned against a wall and ex-vented, relief flooding his features. The only thing left was takeoff, and then he’d be home-free. Unless they found out he was a ‘con and launched him out the fragging airlock, but hopefully that wouldn’t happen. Autobots didn’t do that, right? Launching people out into the unforgiving void of space didn’t strike him as something very autobot-like to do. They were all about morality and crap, right? Right. 

 

What was the worst they could do?

 

He chose to curl up in the corner for the remainder, in an attempt to go unnoticed until takeoff. It took about an hour longer, but he heard the engines rumble and another pang of sweet relief rejuvenated him from helm to pedes. He shot up and stretched, startling a few of the nearby autobots. Not that he cared, of course, until--

 

“ _ Crossgear? _ Is that you?”

 

_ Who the fuck even _ \--. His brain stopped mid-thought when he laid eyes on a somewhat familiar frame. “Deadlo--uh. You...don’t go by that anymore, do you?”

 

“It’s Drift. Has been for quite some time now.” he laughed, “How are you, mech?” he asked.

 

“Uh. Good…? Good. Yes. I’ve been okay.”  _ The frag is his angle? _ Crossgear asked himself, “Uh. And you?”

 

“I’ve been great! Better, at least. Heh. So, what’re you doing here? I honestly didn’t expect any ‘cons to be joining us.” he said, toning his voice down a notch.

 

Oh thank heavens, he knew how to be  _ subtle _ . “Actually, I’m not--”

 

“A DECEPTICON!?”

 

Oh good  _ god _ the delusional red gremlin was back with a vengeance. “I KNEW IT!”

 

“Hey, hey, I’m not anymore! Haven’t been for the better half of a century!” he replied in a whisper-shout, “And could you keep it down? I don’t really want people knowing and--”

 

“THE PEOPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW!” he shouted, pointing an accusing digit at Crossgear’s chestplate.

 

Deadlock--Drift, rather, gave Crossgear a rather sympathetic look. They had both served under Turmoil, and out of all the ‘cons on that crew, Deadlock was the most tolerable. Until he tried that stupid coup. Then he became...significantly less so. He turned away from Crossgear and attempted to reason with the panicking ‘bot. “Red Alert, please, he’s just trying to--”

 

“INFILTRATE OUR SHIP! I know exactly what he’s trying to do, and frankly, I will NOT stand for it!” he cried, glaring up at Cross.

 

_ Red Alert. _  Cross thought.  _ Fitting. _ “Look, despite what you might think, I’m not actually trying to cause trouble.”   
  
“Like hell you aren’t! I’m...I’ve gotta report this to Magnus. Drift, you keep watch over this...this  _ stowaway! _ ” he grumbled.

 

“You let me on!” Crossgear protested.

 

“I will have no more of your trickery, decepticon! I know you’re trying to sabotage this mission somehow, and I won’t stop until I find out why!” he shouted, stalking off to fragging  _ tattle _ on him.

 

“Well. That certainly could’ve gone better.” Drift sighed, “I’ll...go talk to them before Red Alert blows things out of proportion.”

 

“You do that. I’ll just...sit here and try not to die.” he replied, already able to feel some angry optics on his back.

 

“On second thought...come with?” Drift asked, offering him a rather inviting smile. He would’ve thought Drift was flirting if he hadn’t worked with the guy for years.

 

“ _ Please _ .” he sighed, already exasperated from everything that had just transpired.

 

He trudged after Drift through the halls, and they found the command center in chaos. Something about a hull breach. And...they were landing already? Oh, it was to collect the autobots that’d fallen out of the ship. Great.

 

Once the chaos had died down they had a brief chat with the captain and Ultra Magnus, of all people. He...honestly thought it would’ve gone worse.

  
The talk with the captain and his first and second mates went about as smooth as it could’ve gone. He pleaded his case, telling them how he came to be a neutral and the brief period of time he spent on the backwater, organic planet of Synkhol. He neglected to mention how badly he wanted to go back. He walked out with a simple order to attend weekly group therapy a few other ‘cons who had  _ somehow _ managed to bypass Red Alert’s  _ nigh impeccable _ background check as well. All in all, therapy sessions once everyone settled into their routines wasn’t all that bad.  _ It could be worse _ , he reminded himself,  _ They could be ditching me on this lifeless rock of sand. _


	2. Flummox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Space's character!  
> \--  
> Anything's better than sticking around Cybertron.
> 
> ...Even this?
> 
> ESPECIALLY this. This is the best. Flummox is the best, she's fine, everything's fine, the Lost Light is also fine, finefinefinefineFINE.

_ Finally _ , she thought to herself. After what felt like ages of waiting, she had finally made her way to the front of the line. As she approached the ship, she noticed a red and white mech in her way. “Great, what now? _ ” _

 

She visibly winced as soon as it flew out of her mouth. If one could eat words, she’d be guzzling them down right about now, especially after the dirty looks she received from some of the others waiting in line.  Speaking of dirty looks...the red mech in charge of the attendance roster regarded her with a less than welcoming grimace before continuing with his own statement.

 

“...And you are?”

 

“Um, getting on the ship. Could you, like, step aside so I can get in and go?” Earning a few glances from the crowd, she shifted her folded wings closer together, hiding the Decepticon symbol on her back, suddenly a bit less confident about her situation.

 

“I’m going to need your designation and faction before you enter the vessel,” stated a clearly disgruntled Red Alert.

 

“Geez, don’t need to be so pushy. I’m Flummox.”

 

“Faction?”

 

Seeing that most of the others here were Autobots, Flummox figured it was in her best interest to stick with the crowd, just for once.   
  


“I’m an Autobot,” Flummox stated, although rather reluctantly. 

 

Red Alert was more than a little skeptical with her response. “Can I see your badg--HEY!” he shouted mid-sentence, looking past her to another ‘bot, “What do you think you’re doing, bringing  _ live explosives _ onboard before launch? Any and all combustibles are to be diffused and packaged properly before…”

 

Flummox chose not to look a gift turbofox in the mouth, managing to inch her way onto the ship completely unnoticed by the arguing ‘bots. She sauntered aboard like a victorious decepticon general, surveying the area as if she owned the joint. She quickly found a nice piece of unoccupied wall to lean on and rested. Her eyes darted from one frame to the next as they passed, a part of her processor noting that most of them carried the autobrand. She shuttered her optics and let her mind drift elsewhere while awaiting takeoff.

 

-*-

 

Flummox had heard many tales of Cybertron, her supposed home planet. Many of the stories had been of a glorious planet, one with cities that glistened and spires that could make even the most stubborn grin in admiration. A planet that was beautiful beyond comprehension.

 

_ Not this. _

 

Sure, Flummox had heard of the war, but never thought that it could have reduced the planet she was supposed to love to such a mess. Better yet, her friends had been scattered among the stars. She was on this sorry excuse for a planet alone. She couldn’t stand that, so she searched for new friends, found some, and joined their group; a faction called the Decepticons. All was decent, but then she heard the call for some sort of quest, led by an Autobot named Rodimus. The idea of a quest sounded fun, so Flummox figured  _ why not? _ It was more interesting than what was going on where she was. Soon enough she joined the line and ended up where she was now, among 200 or so complete strangers on a quest.

 

_ This was going to be fun. _

 

-*-

 

The dull roar of engines brought Flummox back to reality, and she blinked a few times to reset her optics. Slowly lifting herself off of the wall, she started to wander down the hallways. She was soon glad she did as well, hearing the yelling from whence she came. Continuing to wander, she eventually saw a familiar face.  _ Oh, for Primus’s sake! _

 

Another out loud statement Flummox immediately regretted.

 

“Whoops.”

 

Having nothing else to say, Flummox decided the best decision was to run. Unfortunately, she forgot to hide the Decepticon symbol emblazoned upon her back.

 

“ANOTHER DECEPTICON?!” Red Alert nearly blew out Flummox’s audials with his barely decipherable scream. “THEY’RE  _ EVERYWHERE! _ YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS!” The screeching red Autobot picked up his pace down the hallway. Flummox turned the other way and started once again wandering, thankful there had been no one else in the hallway. Continuing to wander, she found herself alone, with no idea what was going on anywhere. She hadn’t seen anyone else in what felt like ages. For a moment, she could have sworn they left her. That was, until she was approached by a red, orange, and yellow mech.

 

-*-

 

Flummox, albeit lying to Red Alert and being a Decepticon, was allowed to travel with the rest of the crew. Of course, with one condition, which just so happened to be a Decepticon therapy group. She was less than stoked when she first received orders to attend, but given the odd glances she had gotten from others once she stopped hiding her Decepticon symbol. In the end she decided to show up after all, if only to escape attention. Normally, Flummox was all about attention. She loved it. She lived for it. And she found it laughably ironic that she was currently trying to hide from it now.

 

As luck would have it, she managed to remain mostly in the background. She weaved her way in and out of the daily throng of ‘bots pushing past her down the busier corridors, kept her conversations to a minimum, and made sure she never frequented the same places. Before she knew it, three weeks had gone by and it was time for her court mandated therapy session. She stood outside the door to one of the many suites onboard and waited as it slid open. There were only two other people inside. One of them was, quite frankly, too large and far pointier than anyone had any right to be, and the other was short, round, and she looked kind enough. She waved invitingly and ushered Flummox inside, prattling on about introductions and whatnot. 

 

_ This should be interesting.  _


	3. Facsimile/Fax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diane's character!  
> \--  
> Therapist solidarity, among other things.

Fax rubbed at her shoulders and sighed, trying to ease the stabilizers back into place. She could feel her energy reserves draining—entirely expected, but still irritating. But she had to at least get through this shipwide meeting before she went and curled up in alt for a long rest. 

 

There had been too many things to handle in a few days: her introduction to Rung (gotta be collected and professional!), moving belongings to her quarters on the Lost Light and getting them just so, and tracking down that damned doctor and giving him a little "continuing education” session on her condition before liftoff. 

 

The day had finally come, and while it was the beginning of the adventure for many, it was just the end of a long slog for her. 

 

She was excited, of course; why would she be on the ship otherwise? But that had taken a backseat to exhaustion, and the encroaching anxiety that came along with weakened systems. So it could wait. For a few days. Or weeks. Once she had gotten her routine in place, gotten to know people, could think of a future past the next chance she’d have to hide in her quarters.

 

Fax took a deep in-vent and looked up, preparing to mingle as folks began to gather. A red and white bot her size met her eyes and hurried over as the bot he had been talking to breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

“Hey, new crewmate!” he exclaimed amiably (and loudly, giving her audial processors a little twinge), “The name’s Swerve!”

 

Wow, energy. He had it. She loved it, and normally she’d match it, but systems were running a little hot and it just wasn’t going to happen today. Instead she gave him a weak smile. “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Facsimile. Fax.”

 

She began to blurrily cast around for a conversational topic, but Swerve had her covered. “Cool! So what’s your jam, Fax? What brings you to the quest?” He moved this way and that, trying to spot something on her frame. “No insignia, eh? Are you a NAIL?”

 

It was such a relief to be able to actually say it, although still a little fraught. “Yeah, kind of,” she explained. “I was teeeechnically an Autobot since construction, but… well, I kind of hate both factions. Just stuck around to take care of my team, really.” She pointed to the unpolished spot where her insignia used to be and explained that she had pried it off years ago, not able to wear it around in good conscience anymore. Being unimportant and always busy had its perks—she had been able to get away with the “I just haven’t gotten around to fixing it” excuse for an absurdly long time. She trailed off, hoping the little Autobot wasn’t about to turn on her for her grave insult to his faction.

 

He wasn’t. “Wow, that’s a new one!” Swerve bubbled. “Word to the wise—stay away from Red Alert for awhile… he thinks every NAIL’s a 'Con. Long story. Anyway, what did you do in the war? What’s your alt mode?” 

  
He sure was happy to ask whatever questions came to his mind. Well, that was fine. Fax was an open book, and didn’t really mind. “Repair bot,” she replied, popping out her multitool and clacking the extra servos on her back. “Just a little repair vehicle… I’d normally show you, but the ol’ transformation cog’s a bit sore.”

 

“Wait, how old are you? That’s an old bot’s problem.”

 

Sigh. “Yeaaah. I have a weird condition. Something went wrong in the construction process, and my parts don’t work like they should.”

 

“Wait, can’t you just replace ‘em?” Swerve asked, puzzled.

 

Sigh. “No, it’s—it’s a problem with the way my spark interacts with my frame and my nanites and stuff. It’s… complicated.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

“Yeah.” Fax waited, trying to figure out how he was going to react. Bots usually took it in a number of directions, about 90% of them irritating as pit. So it was an absolute gift when Swerve grinned and started telling her about himself, rattling on about his friend Blurr (she wondered about that one) and their plans to open up a bar. 

 

After a couple of smiles, nods, and appropriate coos of appreciation, the captain showed up to start the meeting, and she was able to trade active listening to a conversational partner in favor of passive listening to her new captain. 

 

…

 

“A  _ what? _ ” she spat. A few weeks of decent recharge and a solid, established routine had Fax back to her usual self. Also replenished: her capacity to be utterly enraged.

 

“A Decepticon therapy group,” Rung replied, adjusting his glasses uncomfortably. “The powers that be believe that our Decepticon passengers could use some… support… in adjusting to this new societal structure.” 

 

“So what, they’re all violent murderers and we need to teach them their table manners? Help convert them to our Autobot ways? Rung, this is so gross and factionist! You know what a good  _ half  _ of the Autobots on this ship are capable of—”

 

“I do,” he said calmly, cutting her off. “But orders are orders. The group’s already been set up; I’m just asking you to lead it. I can tell already you have a good head on your shoulders, and I think a NAIL like you is a much more appropriate leader than someone like me in this context, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, I’ll lead it,” she said evenly. “I’m sure we’ll have  _ lots  _ to talk about in group.”

 

“Atta girl,” Rung replied, winking. 


End file.
